


Mad Yellow

by threewick



Category: Legend (2015)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Violence, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewick/pseuds/threewick
Summary: Mad Teddy Smith knows he's not Ronnie Kray's only boy, but he does know he's Ronnie Kray's prettiest. And he doesn't like that being infringed upon.





	Mad Yellow

It’s the shirts that had started it.

 

The shirts - peach, and sky blue, and ballet-slipper pink.

  
They always fitted him snugly, cropped sleeves tight around his biceps as though if he flexed too sharply he might split a seam. That’s the appeal, he thinks - that’s how Ron likes him to look. Fresh and sweet as a sundae, snug in pastels with an earnest smile - ‘my boy,’ Ron calls him when they’re alone, every now and then when they’re out.

 

But a boy who is made out of thick, compact muscle, his chest broad and defined, his fists heavy and scar-knuckled. A boy who is capable of splintering your skull inwards in a riot of black blood and bone fragments, a boy who would get a laugh from doing it, giggle afterward in that too-high pitch and tuck himself under Ron’s arm without a care given to the blood staining the sweet peach of his shirt.

 

Either way, it always comes back to the shirts. Because they’re sort of his _thing_ , right? He’s a lot of things, but a prominent one is pretty - he takes care of himself, is careful with his hair, his face. He keeps himself clean-shaven because Ron doesn’t like the chafe of stubble on the backs of his thighs; he keeps his shoes neat and white which is no small feat on the filthy streets of the East End. And he wears the shirts that Ron gets him since he likes how they make him look, likes how lovely and well-kept they make him feel.

 

So it isn’t his fault, what happens to Martin Rigby.

 

Not after he’d watched Martin sidle up to Ron, his chin turned up to regard him with a broad, eager grin, hand sliding into Ron’s back pocket as he tells him something. None of that is particularly offensive; Teddy knows he’s not Ron’s only boy. He’s never minded that, not when it’s so painfully apparent that he’s Ron’s favorite, not when the others all know their place and respect that Teddy _always_  comes first.

 

But what _is_  offensive is that Martin is wearing a shirt with cropped sleeves, the sleeves loose on his lanky arms, the fabric tinted a gentle, buttery yellow, soft and fresh and sweet as a sundae.

 

It isn’t his fault at all.

 

X

 

“What the fuckin’ hell, Teddy? What the - what the _fuckin'_  hell?”

 

A muscle in Teddy’s cheek twitches, betraying the fact that he’s gritting his teeth. He can hear the spitting fury in Reggie’s voice even across the bar, knows that he needs to ready himself for a fight. He can’t actually hurt Reggie - Ron would never forgive him - but he can’t let Reggie hurt _him_  either, not when Ron would never forgive Reggie. Because no matter what, Teddy is his best boy.

 

“What is it, Reg?” Teddy turns as he speaks, keeping one elbow on the bar as he turns to regard Reggie with wide, innocent eyes. He’s wearing the green shirt today, the one with long sleeves though they’re rolled up past his elbows. Ronnie likes him in green: ‘you fuckin’ look like Easter, you do. Give us a twirl, then, Teddy - attaboy, well done, now take it off so I can tie it ‘round your throat.’

 

“What do you _fucking_  mean what is it, you fuckin’ idiot, have you completely lost the fucking plot?”

 

Reggie is making no attempts to keep his voice down, something that might be enough to bring any other man to heel but Teddy has been called Mad Teddy for far longer than he’s known either Kray. Instead he maintains his expression of soft, polite confusion, the hand on the bar still ringed loosely around his glass. It’s a deliberate action disguised as thoughtlessness; if Reggie tries anything funny, Teddy’ll smash the glass and put his fucking eyes out with the bits.

 

“You _know_  you isn’t allowed near the fucking knuckles, Teddy - not the brass, nor the pipes, nor the knives, nor any of the fucking weapons you need to be within three  _fucking_  feet of a bloke to use. Ain’t it? Yeah? _Yeah_?”

 

Teddy grits his teeth again, bristling at the unnecessary reminder of the rules. It’s one of the few rules Ron had put in place for him, and only after one too many of Teddy’s gleeful bursts of deserved violence had begun to run their trail red. It isn’t the same with guns; he can keep his head around guns. They’re so impersonal, so ugly, all coiled power and metallic _pop_. But when it’s up close… fuck. That’s when it shifts into something deeper, more than violence, something that pulses in the roof of his mouth.

 

But he hadn’t killed anyone this time, and he certainly hadn’t fucked Martin up badly enough to warrant this sort of dressing down in the middle of the fucking pub in broad daylight.

 

His smile long faded, Mad Teddy Smith rolls his shoulders beneath his green shirt, drawing his eyes away from Reggie Kray and taking a short sip of his drink.

 

When he answers, his voice holds all of the petulance of a scolded teenager and none of the indication that he’d just permanently handicapped a man with his fists:

 

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

 

X

 

“Oi - oi oi, Martin!”

 

There’s a wide, easy grin on Teddy’s face, one arm raised in an exuberant wave as he half-skips to catch up with Martin Rigby. He notices with a surge of cruel, savage pleasure the flicker of panic that darkens Martin’s expression, though by the time Teddy’s caught up it’s gone.

 

“Wha’ you want, Mad Teddy?” Martin asks, both hands in his pockets as he walks.

 

The odd use of his nickname startles a sharp, genuine laugh from Teddy - a cackle, a smidge unhinged, his head thrown back as it peters out into a faint giggle.

 

“Just _Teddy_ ,” he insists, clapping Martin gamely on the back, hard enough to stutter his stride. Martin’s not wearing the yellow shirt today - just plain white, a rough tweed jacket overlaying, none of that swagger from the club present as he walks. It doesn’t matter. Teddy still remembers how he’d looked in the yellow, smiling up at Ron. He feels an ache in his back molars.

 

“Fine. What you want, Teddy?” Martin repeats warily. Teddy’s answering grin is wide enough to show all of his neat, even teeth.

 

X

 

“D’you think Ronnie is going to let this slide? Aye - look at me. No, you _look_  at me, you li’il tart-“

 

Reggie’s grip is bruising, fingers suddenly seizing Teddy’s jaw and wrenching his gaze around, his own face mere inches away. The effect is intimidating, terrifying really, and it goes straight to Teddy’s cock. He’s not particularly interested in Reggie Kray - too moral an’ all, judging from his self-appointed throne, treating Ron less than the genius he is - but every now and then he’ll do something like this, something that’s so intensely Ronnie-like that Teddy’s brain gets a little scrambled.

 

He holds very still as Reggie’s fingers crush him harder, half-listening to the hissed threats, his smooth face distorted by the vicegrip as his eyes glaze over and he slips low into himself.

 

It isn’t until Reggie releases him with a sharp, painful shove that Teddy realizes he’s still speaking, blinking back into awareness as the hint of a smirk perverts his expression of beatific confusion.

 

“ - an’ if you think I’m handling this one with him, you’re off your fucking head. _You_  go tell Ronnie and I’ll clean up your  _fucking_ mess.”

 

“I will, Reg,” Teddy promises inexplicably breathlessly, touching his jaw with thoughtless fingertips. “I’m sorry - really, I am.”

 

His words are negated by the wide grin splitting across his face and the latent exuberance to his words. Reggie doesn’t bother hiding his disgust as he turns away, and Teddy watches him with a sharp, shrewd gaze as he stalks off into the back rooms.

 

X

 

He takes deliberate care with his hair beforehand, fussing with it in the small mirror of his flat. He’s chosen the lilac shirt tonight - not a gift from Ron, though Ron will think it is. Ron forgets sometimes, what he’s given Teddy. It makes it easier for Teddy to maintain the work he does on the side, the things he does when Ronnie is distracted with Reggie or one of the other boys. He likes to let Ronnie think that he needs him; it’s easier that way, keeps Ronnie happy. Better to appear the gormless and besotted than outright lethal.

 

But Teddy Smith is not gormless, and he doesn’t need anyone. Sometimes it just feels fucking good to play pretend.

 

X

 

“Ron?”

  
The camper is dark, the woods surrounding it quiet. The front door creaks as he pushes it open, the pitch of it sending something rustling off close by in the brush. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows of the small room but when they do, he sees the orange glow of a cigar. Ron’s silhouette swims into shape in fragments until Teddy can see him, outlined in the dark, sitting still in his armchair like a king on a throne.

 

His legs are spread wide, his arms settled on the rests, his back very straight. Tension is making him into angles, his anger evident. Teddy bites the inside of his lip to keep from exhaling a moan.

 

“Get in ‘ere,” Ronnie commands, his voice low and patient and dangerous. Teddy obeys, closes the door carefully behind him. He takes two measured steps into the room, maintaining his silence. Ron’s eyes catch the light from the burning end of his cigar and stand out in the still dark like little stars. There is a long moment where there is no sound at all.

 

“I just came back from seeing Martin.”

 

Teddy blinks, impassive.

 

“‘E’s in hospital.”

 

Ron plucks the cigar out of his mouth, taps it on the edge of the ashtray to his right. Teddy says nothing.

 

“Says you used the brass.”

 

The light from the cigar bobs as Ron rests it back between his lips, repositioning it deftly with his tongue. Something low and molten in Teddy’s gut throbs.

 

“You ain’t meant to use the brass, Teddy.” Teddy swallows, his hands clasped neatly at the small of his back. The shadows seem to be drawing back from Ronnie, aware of the building tension, aware that there is a breaking point fast approaching. “And you ain’t meant… to FUCK UP MY BOYS.”

 

Ron shoves himself upright as he bellows, the cigar falling, forgotten and useless, from his mouth before he stomps it out with the gleaming toe of his shoe. Teddy, finally, flinches.

 

“Martin had lovely eyes, Teddy, just - just the most lovely fuckin’ eyes, and now ‘e’s only got one left. What you do with the other one, then? Go on, Teddy, what the fuck d’you do with it?”

 

“Nothing,” Teddy says honestly, adopting a wide-eyed look of remorse that he doesn’t feel. It reflects in his gaze nonetheless. “Really, Ron - I didn’t do nothing with it, I just roughed him up a bit is all, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“You smashed his FUCKING face in,” Ron snarls, advancing one step and raising his right hand, flexing it. Teddy exhales keenly through his nose, his eyes overbright in the semidark.

 

“This because I sucked his cock? He tell you I sucked his cock?”

  
Teddy shakes his head no, pressing his lips together in the suggestion of anguish. It’s not entirely feigned - he hadn’t known that Ronnie had sucked Martin Rigby off. If he had, he’d not have stopped with the one eye.

 

“I only did it the once - I’m not a fucking faggot, it was jus’ the once,” Ron spits, and Teddy is nodding automatically, familiar with this song and dance.

 

“I know you ain’t, Ron, ‘course you’re not.” There’s no room in this dialogue for Teddy to remind Ron how frequently he’s got Teddy’s cock stuffed into his mouth, how regularly he’ll break and let - no, _ask_  that - Teddy fuck him proper. They’re playing roles, and Teddy always plays his role best of all. “I didn’t know you sucked his cock, swear it.”

 

“Then why the _fuck_  did you smash up - why the FUCK-” Ronnie catches himself in the moment, forcibly pauses, inhales, exhales. Stills, lowers the clenched hand he’d raised towards Teddy’s face. A stab of disappointment tempers Teddy’s arousal.

 

“Why’d you smash up his face, Teddy? Why’d you do it? Why? Why’d you fuck up his fuckin’ face?”

  
Ronnie’s voice is conversational now, transactional. Teddy knows this part - he can let go a little bit, this is Ron’s sweet spot. He’s wound up but not yet unbalanced, not until Teddy gives him that final push.

 

“You gave him a shirt.”

 

It’s rare for Teddy to surprise Ronnie Kray, though it’s evident that he’s managed it now. Ronnie looks taken aback, his head cocking slightly and his brow furrowing behind his glasses as he tries to make sense of a shirt as motivation for a violent blinding.

 

“Sorry?” he demands, the danger back in his tone.

 

“You - you gave him a shirt. The yellow one, the soft yellow one. Same as you give me. I saw him, wearin’ it and whispering to you, rubbin’ it in my fuckin’ face-”

 

“Are you jealous, Teddy?” Ronnie asks, something venomous and gleeful unspooling in the dark of his eyes, reflected in the weak moonlight filtering through the windows.

 

“I’m fucking not.” Teddy’s reply is instant, spat out, actual indignation at the very idea of such a thing twisting up the words.

 

The hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of Ron’s full mouth and Teddy’s eyes narrow, his jaw setting. He doesn’t like being laughed at unless he’s in on the joke, and he’s sure as fuck not jealous of Martin fucking Ribgy, half-blind in a hospital bed with the taste of Ronnie’s balls on his tongue.

 

“Why d’you think I gave Martin that shirt?”

 

Ronnie turns as he speaks, his body language relaxed though Teddy can read through the tension in the set of his shoulders to the gathered storm within. He doesn’t like that Ronnie so plainly admits to gifting Martin the shirt - not a hint of remorse, not a lick of apology. He bites at the inside of his cheek.

 

“Dunno, Ron.”

 

“What’s that?” Ron asks carelessly, still turned away from Teddy as he fiddles at the hightop table beside his armchair. There’s a click and a flare of flame, then the only light in the room is the moon and the orange burn of the cigar’s foot.

 

“I said, I dunno.” Teddy’s words are terse, pushed past his teeth with a prickle of aggravation.

 

“I gave it to ‘im because I like pretty things - I like it when my boys like nice. Ain’t it? He looked nice in that shirt.”

 

“ _I_  look nice in those shirts,” Teddy spits back, unabashedly pushing, noting the way the heat in Ron’s gaze seems to swell with the resistance.

  
“Is you the only one who’s allowed to look nice, then?”

 

“Yes.” Teddy’s response is simple, clear, his demands laid bare on the table. There’s no use beating about the bush; Ronnie had known that Teddy had fucked up Martin for a reason, and Teddy isn’t here to pussyfoot about it.

 

He’s more than happy to play the role of pliant - he’ll do it because he loves it, and because he loves Ron. He’ll let himself be traded about like a whore because it feels good, the rush of it, entrapping these posh, fancy aristocrats, being so desired that they’ll put their reputation - their entire _lives_  - on the line for a turn with sweet Teddy Smith. It may not be clear from the outside, but he does the things he does for Ronnie Kray because he _wants_ to do them, and because Ron always treats him with the respect he demands.

 

At least until this Martin Rigby fuckabout. And he’s not going to be stepped on, not like that. Not even by a Kray.

There’s a heavy moment where Ron stares at him, his gaze bright and wild, the cigar lax between his lips. Teddy holds his gaze, chin set, unwavering; he wonders if Ronnie is remembering what he can do, what else his body is good for besides taking his cock. The power behind the muscles Ronnie wraps up in expensive pastel fabrics, the quiet bloodlust hidden behind Teddy’s sweet, affected gentility.

 

And then Ronnie movies suddenly, and for one mad, hysterical second Teddy thinks there will be a fight, can feel the rush of such a thing in the bite of his teeth, the manic desire to rip apart his skin and finally see what lies beneath - what exactly is Ronnie Kray, what do the cogworks of a nutter look like - but then he simply repositions the cigar, his shoulders relaxing.

 

Teddy’s heart is still pounding in his throat, adrenaline and lust and violence fizzing hot in his veins.

 

“Right, alright, he’s what we’ll do - here’s what you’ll do.” Ron takes another step towards Teddy, tipping his chin down to better see him, exaggerating their scant height difference. The momentary wildness is quelled by the suggestion in the gesture; Ron knows how much Teddy likes this, the thrill he gets from Ron crowding him, towering over him. The temporary threat of a real confrontation is gone, and for that Teddy is half-grateful now; he’s only had to properly hurt Ron once before, but it had been enough to ensure that Ron had never pushed him so far again.

 

“You’re going to go visit Martin in hospital. Right? And you’re gonna tell him you’re sorry. Yeah?”

 

“Fucking _won't._ ”

 

Teddy’s disgusted refusal is clearly the answer Ronnie had anticipated, since the spark of that same dangerous delight dances in Ron’s eyes, twisted into fire by the glow of his cigar.

 

“Then I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. Can’t let the other boys thinkin’ you got away with it, Teddy - you know I can’t.”

 

“Yeah,” Teddy agrees, his eyes widened again, his voice faintly breathless. He’s lifted his chin, is staring hungrily at Ron’s mouth, his own hands curling absently into loose fists at his sides. It’s a different rush than before - this one is familiar, controlled. Safe. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“What you want it to be, then, love? You don’t tell them you get to choose - this is just for you, Teddy. What do you want this time?”

 

The persistent, heady ache in his groin has fingered its way up, up into his gut, through to his throat, working its way into his mouth as he rolls his tongue eagerly over his lower lip. He’s thinking of the options, all the tried and true favorites he and Ron have done before: his neck gives a phantom throb with the reminder of the necklace of bruises he’d worn, green and brown and mottled, for a full three weeks. Or there’s the cane, lovely red stripes that crosshatch across the backs of his thighs. Or the litter of indiscriminate bruises across his torso, his arse, the wincing when he sits that lets everyone know he’s been a very, very bad boy.

 

With Ronnie, the possibilities are endless and he’s already stiffening with the promise of something gorgeous and terrible, his lips parted.

 

“Anything, Ron - anything. Just not the face.”

 

Ron huffs a sharp, unexpected laugh and draws the cigar out of his mouth. He studies Teddy for a long beat and for a moment there’s naked ardor on his expression, softening the corners of his eyes. It’s gone as he turns, stubbing the cigar out before beginning to roll up his shirtsleeves, but his reply is audible all the same:

 

“As if I fucking would.”

 

X

 

The next time Mad Teddy Smith sees Martin Rigby, he arranges his expression into something contrite and shuffles, hangdog, past him into the bar. When he sits on the high stool, he winces visibly; there is a line of nasty, fingerprint-sized bruises trailing from just beneath the sleeve of his shirt down past his elbow, and the suggestion of discomfort in his unnaturally solemn gait.

 

It’s enough to make Martin sneer at him despite the heavy gauze bandaging his own face, something that Teddy politely averts his gaze from. He’s been very bad, after all, and he has to make amends for his wrongdoings. That’s what Ron’s just told them all - all his boys, gathered in the pub - before swiftly rerouting the conversation.

 

It almost doesn’t even seem to matter that Martin is wearing a shirt of stark white with a tweed jacket atop, and Teddy’s bruises are peeking out from a sleeve the color of soft, buttery yellow.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed Legend but more specifically, I adored the too-brief appearances of Mad Teddy Smith as done by TE. So I decided to expand upon what it might be like in Teddy's head! Lifted a few ideas after chats with a friend, so thanks for your help too <3 I hope you liked it, please come find me on tumblr at threewickfic. I always love suggestions/requests/observations/mindless convos!


End file.
